And so I wait to find some reasoning to pull me under—to allow the waves to grab hold of me and push me out into the ether of the ocean. And I will drown until sand tangles my hair and salt pumps through my veins . . .
Tell us about yourself.
I’m the kind of writer who thinks more about writing than actually writing. Perhaps this is the dilemma of all writers. Instead of writing, I enjoy buying books I never seem to finish . . .
A light over them hills I see,
The hills of ash where they’ll bury me.
In these hills I will forever be,
And let the truth set you free.
A bleeding man dies in the dust,
A dead woman leaves footprints of rust,
Soulless children play in the streets,
While the murders of crows arrive in fleets . . .
I dig a hole in the backyard.
Grass stains my hands
as I bury all my simple treasures;
words and ribbons and bones.
I pray that you won’t find them
as I wait for night to fall
so I can dig them out frantically,
lay them out one by one to admire with fervent joy . . .
I’ll mold my life after yours
I promise to always love my children.
Teach them to love me,
like I will endlessly love you.
I might have my Mother’s temper.
But I blame resilience on my Father . . .